Death is cold. Very, very cold. The river Styx runs swift and deep, ever sure in one direction. The man, a black shape against the grey of the shore, reached down to taste the water. Yet as he did, it left the bank, as if some force had drawn it away. “Good,” he thought," the river still does not suffer those who know its secret to taste of its waters." But he was troubled, for the black water was slower to remove itself from his presence than before.

He had strayed too long in the realm of shadow, and was beginning to see the shades of his predecessors gone before him, telling him to go back. His time had not yet come. He straightened up, hoisted his pack hight on his back, and picked up his sword from the ground where it lay beside him. Turning sharply on his heels, he headed back towards Life.